


Poisoned Us All

by brodylover



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Animal Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Nightmares, Slow Build, Slow Burn, horrible agonizing pain, rated e later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-04-28 21:42:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5106728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brodylover/pseuds/brodylover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a battle a few days off from Skyhold, Cullen gives his emergency Lyrium to Dorian. It helps, but immediately after, starts to kill the mage. Who's been spiking Cullen's drink? And how can he save the Inquisitor's favorite Vint before it's too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fur dripped red, plastered against the side of his face, the thick of it soaked into the deep scar cutting through his lip. His arms were still strong, even though he could hardly see where he was swinging his thick sword. He was red and so were the templars he was attempting to stop.   
It was a small town, but it had been built on elven ruins. It was only thanks to that Morrigan woman that they even knew there was a chance that Corypheus would be there. It wasn’t important enough for the Inquisitor to get involved, but Cullen, a few troops, and some of the elite members of the Inquisition, could easily be dispatched. They’d only had enough time to evacuate the civilians before the red templars had arrived, a behemoth lumbering after them.   
Cassandra was good. It had been a long time since he’d seen her in action and she was no longer in sync with him, their warrior skills no longer aiding one another. She was better than him now. He’d spent too much time behind a desk, too much time shaking over the contents that it held. He was slow now, sluggish.   
Dorian was a joy to watch, if only Cullen had the opportunity. He was all fire and sparks and turns, swinging his staff like a dancer. Fire and fear came from him in waves, scaring off, at least momentarily, some of the red templars so the fighters could have a moment to get back on their feet.   
Then there was Sera. He was glad Sera was far away. He didn’t think that he could deal with her after traveling all this way with her nearby. Even while fighting he could feel the tackiness of the honey she had slipped into his boot that morning.   
He wiped the blood and sweat from his eyes, finding most of his opponents downed. There were still a few, sharp spikes breaking their armor, but Cassandra was dealing with them, keeping her shield up to protect herself from the onslaught of Sera’s arrows. That left the behemoth up to him and Dorian.   
A ring of fire burned at the mountains feet, bursting as it staggered past. Flames licked at the red crystals piercing out of its flesh, reflecting off in bright lights. After that was a shock through its system, lightning bouncing from one point to the next.   
Cullen stopped himself from watching, just standing there and seeing the mage do all the work. He was a warrior, not an office clerk. He could still do this.   
He raced forward, screaming as he did. He plunged his sword deep into where there should have been an artery in the monstrosities leg, would have felled a mortal man, and kept going. He hacked at the creature, chipping his sword on the hard shards of lyriums. He was hardly making a dent.   
Then it swung back. It didn’t have a hand, but a massive bulge of stone and when it connected with Cullen it threw him back across the bloodied road.   
He couldn’t breathe. There were tears in his eyes. The song in his head was so loud that it was pounding. And rising above all that was a different song, an angry song.   
He tried to get up, cough, wheezed, and fell back. His guts felt cold. Nothing was broken, his armor took the brunt of it, but he was winded and couldn’t take down air. He knew this feeling. He could work past it.   
But then he didn’t have to. Dorian was there, between him and the behemoth, his staff ahead of him. With a twirl and a flourish time seemed to slow down, gold shimmering in the air like slides of broken glass. The monster slowed down. Everything slowed down. Only Cullen and Dorian were left moving at their regular speed and in his current state, he was allowed to watch the mage work.   
His attacks were sharp and fast and dazzling, streaks of color spinning around him, lighting him like a magister should be. He sparkled as purple hues raced past, making the air smell like ozone. The darkness around his eyes blossomed into ash as a fireball hurtled into the lumbering beast.   
It was all so pretty and distracting that Cullen almost didn’t notice the small trickle of blood that started from Dorian’s nostril. His eyes were foggy and sweat dripped down his face, but still he worked. His shoulders slumped forward and his knees bent as the stream of blood grew thicker.   
Then everything was at the correct speed once more.   
“Lyrium.” Cullen wasn’t sure he heard it right. Dorian was swaying, using his staff for balance and he couldn’t fight any more. He was weak and quiet and he didn’t look at Cullen, just had one hand extended. “Lyrium, please, if you want to live.”  
Cullen had it. Of course he did. The towering beast was coming. He had to get to his feet. He had to fight.   
He reached to his belt, pulled the bottle of blue liquid from his pack. The song grew louder, almost deafening. His hand was shaking. He could hardly hold his sword with the other one. He licked his lips.   
He handed the bottle to Dorian and pulled himself up, inhaling as best he could to fill his bruised lungs. His sword was dull and dented, useless now, but it would have to do. Dorian had spent himself to keep him safe, Cullen could only be expected to do the same.   
Dorian drained the bottle easily before tossing it aside, not caring that the bottle shattered. A new energy was in him, stronger than before, and all of the weakness in him was gone. Cullen tried to take that as inspiration.   
He screamed again and charged the behemoth. He was slower and more cautious, but he did what he could, ignoring the fire surrounding him. It was Dorian, of course it was, but as the energy had been different, so were these flames. The edges of them were blue like the lyrium itself and it rippled across the red lyrium where they hit as elemental waves. As they struck the behemoth it made it shutter and fall back. When the last of them had landed the creature was down, Cullen not even reaching it.   
And then he heard a bark.   
He turned, finding Dorian retching, lyrium and bile and blood, splattering onto his precious Tevine boots. He was pale, shaking once more, and the way he gripped his staff was for support against pain instead of exhaustion. When he looked at Cullen his eyes were bloodshot, the blue glowing faintly from the lyrium.   
“What did you give me?” he implored before vomiting again, this time falling to his knees and supporting himself on his shaking arms.   
Cullen raced to his side, dropping his sword on the way. He put a hand on Dorian’s back, finding him hot even through his leathers.   
“What?” he asked but there was no answer, not when Dorian shuddered once more an collapsed.


	2. Chapter 2

Skyhold was six days away with all of them, the troops marching along and needing breaks to eat and rest. With just the two of them, it was only a 3rd of that. Cullen kicked at his horse’s flanks whenever she grew weary, trying to press further, get closer to Skyhold. He couldn’t wait.   
The healer at camp had gotten the bleeding down, so Dorian wasn’t at risk of dying too soon, but he was pale and freezing, his skin clammy and pale. The poison was still coursing through him, as little sense as that made. It was Lyrium, Cullen had taken it a hundred times, and he’d never reacted the way that Dorian had.   
He clutched the mage to his chest, keeping him upright as they rode. Cassandra had told him to go ahead, to get him to Skyhold as quickly as possible, she’d lead the rest of the troops. Cullen wasn’t even capable of controlling his own men.   
It was dark by the time he had to stop. He couldn’t get his horse to go any further, no matter how much he kicked. She just snorted and bucked, trying to throw him and Dorian off. That was it then, they’d have to camp.  
Cullen didn’t bother with setting anything up, he didn’t have much in the way of materials. He’d left to quickly to grab supplies. So he built a small fire with the twigs and branches scattered around them and lay Dorian down so his head was against the horse’s flank where she sat. He hadn’t woken up once. Cullen touched his face, finding him still breathing, and exhaled.   
He pulled out the flask from his saddlebags. Water. He didn’t know much about Dorain’s condition, but he was sweating and he’d vomited and he had to be dehydrated. It was with a careful hand that he tipped Dorian’s head back and poured the water down into his throat, rubbing gently with his thumb to make him swallow.   
Dorian’s mustache was destroyed, just hair going in all different directions instead of its usually controlled curls. His makeup was mostly warn away but there were dark shadows around his eyes that Cullen couldn’t recognize as just being from exhaustion or not.   
He was shivering.   
The horse was hot and the fire was warm but Dorian was shivering. He had been the whole time, had Cullen been in a good enough space to notice. He shrugged out of his furs and wrapped them around Dorian, trying not to shift him too much. He didn’t want him hurting further. The shivering lessened, at least for the moment, and Cullen crossed his arms, trying to keep himself warm. Without the fur the wind was cold and it snuck through his armor like a snake in Ferelden.  
Cullen sat by the fire, poking at it with his sword, trying to keep it alive. The horse was asleep and he should have been too, but he couldn’t. Dorian was hurt and it was his fault. He didn’t know how he’d hurt him, but he had and he couldn’t stop going over it in his head. The fight, the need for Lyrium, the vomiting blood, the race to the healer, the running back home.   
The song was back. It had always been there, somewhere. He’d just been ignoring it. In the cold of the night, not moving, just resting and getting ready to sprint for Skyhold once more, it was singing to him easily. It was in his head and on his tongue and it would have been easy for him to sing along, if only the song had words.   
There was no lyrium now. He’d given away the last of it and it was killing a mage. Even though he was no longer a templar he couldn’t stop himself from killing mages. It was like some sick twist of fate that made him want to take the lyrium all over again, let the song drown out his guilt. But he couldn’t. The only lyrium around was in Dorian.  
He looked to the mage, eyes tired but searching. His lips were chapped from dehydration and vomit, a shine of sweat between them and his favored hair. Perhaps there was still a taste of lyrium there, in his mouth, that Cullen could take away. Perhaps it was in his bloodstream now and Cullen could cut it from him, drink heavily of it, and feel whole.   
He shook his head. He couldn’t. It was sick and wrong and – and Dorian didn’t deserve that.   
He shook his head again, this time dislodging the song from it. There was something happening, some noise out in the darkness that he needed to hear.   
It was a growling, a howling in the distance. The fire reflected in the eyes of something surrounding them. He didn’t have to see them to know that the wolves were already all around them, ready to eat them all.   
He leapt to his feet, brandishing his sword. It was still dull but it would do something. The wolves stalked closer.   
There was something wrong. Wolves didn’t like fire. They didn’t attack people when they were in groups like this. Something had changed them.   
He took a step back towards Dorian, making sure not to trip over him. Perhaps it was the lyrium. It affected animals too, as it did with people. He’d heard the reports of the Venatori experimenting on Giants and other creatures.  
It didn’t matter.   
When the first wolf lunged he swung his sword like a club, no finesse, just strength. He hit it in the side, knocking it away. It slid when it hit the ground, still alive but sore.   
The next he stabbed. It was close to the ground, darting at his legs. It was force that got the tip into the wolf’s back, and he tore it apart to pull the blade free.   
Then two were on him. He couldn’t see them racing up behind him in the dark. One was at his shoulder, teeth deep, and he yowled. The other was on his calf, another bite, shaking it’s head to tear the muscle out. He kicked and clawed at the animals, crying out at the hot pain that soaked into his limbs from their jaws. He tossed himself to the ground, dismantling the one form his shoulder and knocking the one at his leg to a new angle, tearing his skin away through his boot.   
There was more noise, more than just his own baying and the wolves barking. The horse was up, neighing and panicking, hooves clawing at the dirt. She was going to trample Dorian.   
Cullen shoved up one arm, grabbing the wolf by the throat before it had a chance to lunge at his face. His fingers were deep in its throat and he clenched, hearing it whine as it tried to break free. He gritted his teeth, clenched harder. It shook it’s head, clawed at his plate mail.   
Once it had stopped moving he turned his attention to the other. He couldn’t feel his leg anymore. He could hardly see it in the low light. He reached out, took the sword he’d dropped without noticing.   
The horse stepped on the wolf’s spine, pinning it and snapping it. Only once it was dead did her crying out and stomping stop. Cullen looked around, found the one he’d knocked away clamoring to its feet and running off, its tail between its legs.   
He sighed, let his head fall back on the ground. His eyes closed and a flood of warmth came through him, blood on his limbs and sleep over the rest. He didn’t care about the blood. He was fine. He didn’t hurt, not at the moment.   
There was hot air against his face, then a light nip of horse lips. He opened his eyes. The horse was standing over him, face too close for comfort.   
“No rest for the wicked, huh?” he asked, trying to muster the strength to pat her long nose. He couldn’t quite get himself to do it. “You watched out for Dorian, yeah? Made sure he was okay?”  
The horse didn’t answer.   
He looked past her, saw Dorian lying on his side, where he’d fallen when the horse had stirred. He hadn’t been hurt. Cullen sighed again, relieved.


	3. Chapter 3

The joviality of Skyhold vanished and he kicked his horse’s flanks to get her over the last few hills and through the fortress gates.   
There were shouts upon their entering, a few templars and mages noticing their wounded idols. They darted to the horse’s side, the mages gentle as they pulled Dorian down from Cullen’s lap. He felt light and cold without that pressure there, his wounds hurting all the more. Dorian didn’t move though and the healers amongst the mages did what they could while the younger mages rushed to get the surgeon. The templars just stood in awe, not knowing what to do for their commander. Cullen didn’t lead them, not really, and he did not need the help that Dorian did.   
He took himself to the stables, climbed down from his horse and made sure that she was comfortable with Master Dennet, before heading towards the surgeon.   
Blackwall popped his head out from the barn before Cullen could get too far, a long silver of wood stuck in his thick beard.   
“You’re early. Something the matter? Lots of ruckus out there.” He grumbled.   
Cullen didn’t want to tell him. He didn’t want to admit to his own folly. He scratched the back of his neck with the hand of his good arm, shifting to hide the gash from the other warrior. “Dorian got hurt.” He explained, “It was more than bed rest and healers could do in camp, so I returned here. I’m not sure what’s hurting him, to be honest.”  
Blackwall’s eyes were already soft but they got positively fuzzy upon hearing that Dorian was hurt. “You don’t say. Dorian’s a good kid, when he wants to be, you make sure he gets better.”  
“I plan on it.” Cullen nodded. His leg was aching, not so much as the long ride on horseback as it was from the bite marks, deep cutting, the bloody sticky and holding the wound closed.   
“Hmm.” Blackwall didn’t sound as if he believed him but he slinked back into the barn, leaving Cullen alone.   
He sighed, one hand going to the wound on his arm, clutching it and then releasing at the sharp intake of fire. He headed to the surgeon. He would have marched, he was good at marching, but he was tired and achy and hurt and every step made him want to sleep, or, at the very least, sit down.   
He was halfway there when he heard the shouting. The surgeon was yelling out orders, pushing mages out of her tent, getting leeches and hot water and towels. It was chaos, people running in and out, doing what they could.   
Cullen ran.   
It wasn’t fast, slowed by the gash in his leg, and it was awkward, but he ran. It was his fault. He had to get there. He had to help.   
He was stopped by a nurse. She was young and pretty, but she grabbed him as firmly as any of his own soldiers would. She glared at him and told him no, that there was no room.   
He could feel himself cave, his shoulders falling forward, his curls stringy over his face. He didn’t look like Cullen Rutherford any more. He clung to his limb, didn’t let her see. He didn’t need medical attention, not when Dorian needed so much of it. He could handle this on his own.   
The screaming changed when the leeches came in. It wasn’t the outbursts of orders, but an onslaught of agony. The nurse tried not to move, tried not to turn and stare, but Cullen was able to see around her. Through the opening flaps of the tent, through the passerby, Cullen could see Dorian.   
He wished that he couldn’t.   
Dorian was upright, but not by his own choice. His back was arched, his eyes open and glowing with the blue of lyrium. His once perfect mustache was in tatters and now drenched in blood, a spattering of it spraying from his mouth as he writhed, screamed, and coughed. His body spasmed, arms and shoulders sharp points, and those nearest him grabbed hold, pinned him down.   
They had woken him. He should have remained sleeping.   
Cullen fell to his knees right there, in the middle of the Skyhold courtyard. Dorian was right there, screaming so loud his throat would blister, so much pain his body couldn’t lie still. It was his fault. It was all his fault. He had taken something beautiful and poisoned it. It was a mistake, but he was the only thing that he could blame.   
The nurse’s hands were on him, as if to comfort, as if to shield him from his friends cries. He wouldn’t have any of it. He pushed her away.   
He deserved this and much worse. He deserved to hear the agony that Dorian suffered because of him. He deserved to feel it for him. He had to be there.   
Again she stopped him, put an arm on his chest to keep him from entering the tent. He stared at her. She was so stern for someone so warm. He wanted to be there for Dorian, wanted to hold his hand as if that would ease his pain.   
He fled.   
He took the stone steps two at a time, leaving the courtyard and the healer and the surgeon and the pain behind. He had to get out of there. There was nothing that he could do for Dorian. There was nothing that he could do for anyone.   
He made it to his quarters. He slammed the door shut and barred it. He tore off his armor and sword, tossed it across the room. Then he sat, not in his chair but behind it, back against the stone, ass against the floor. He curled in on himself. At some point he grabbed a bottle of wine. At some other point he finished it and through the glass at the opposite wall.   
He could still hear Dorian.


	4. Chapter 4

The courtyard was empty. No one wanted to be there. It was silent, blessedly so, only nurses giving orders and discussing supposed treatments. Cullen could see it all from his office, looking down at the small workers and common folk and soldiers. Someone, who he’d thought was a child at first but, from the stockiness of her shape he knew she was a dwarf, came to the tents. He couldn’t tell what she was doing, could hardly care with how lax and slow his brain was. He’d had a second bottle of wine, perhaps a third. He couldn’t rightfully tell.   
She left though and she was holding something and he didn’t really care at all about her existence at the moment. Dorian was quiet, that was all that mattered right then. He was asleep, or unconscious, and he wasn’t hurting any more. Cullen considered following suit but wasn’t sure if he could make it up to his bed. He hadn’t remembered the ladder being so tall. He was drunk and the pain was numbed by it but it was still there. He hadn’t even bothered to wrap his wounds.  
He would have jumped if he’d been able to, but the knock on the door was nothing more than a large jerking sound, drawing him from his hazy thoughts of sleep and self hatred. He stood, using the chair to pull himself up, but couldn’t get much further than that. Even through the fog of his brain he felt the torn muscle in his calf give out on him and he fell into the chair as best as he could.   
The knock came again.   
He stared at the door. He wanted to yell at it, to curse out whoever was on the other side. He didn’t want them there. He didn’t want whatever news they had for him. It couldn’t have been good. If it were about Dorian, it was bad. If it was about the Inquisitor, it was bad. He didn’t want to know what they thought of him. He knew that he had failed, had been a disappointment. He had made a mess of everything.   
“Commander?” the voice on the other side of the door was high pitched, curious and feminine. He knew that voice. He didn’t know who it was but he knew that voice. “Are you asleep?”  
“The door’s unlocked,” he crooned, leaning over his desk. Too much weight on his arm and he gasped and pulled away.   
The door opened, letting the moonlight into the room. He hadn’t realized how dark it had gotten. He had been hiding in the corner for so long, the day had completely passed. In it was the dwarf that had been down in the courtyard. In her hand was a vial of something thick and red, but it was glowing a little more than it should have been.   
“You don’t look so good,” Dagna didn’t bother with the pleasantries as she came in, closing the door behind her.   
“I look as good as a man in my position should at this moment,” he waved away the concern in her voice.   
“That doesn’t look so good either.” She was eyeing the wound on his shoulder. He turned as if he could hide it from her. He knew that he couldn’t. There was no point in trying.   
“What are you here about?” he asked. Those were words and they were in the right order, he was certain of it.   
“You’re drunk.” She stuck out her tongue. She was a dwarf, she should have been used to alcohol. He had no reason to hide that from her.   
“Is that why you came? To point out the obvious?”  
“No, not at all. I got Dorian’s blood!” She held up the vial as if it were a trophy. “It wasn’t hard since he was made unconscious. I’ve been wanting to study it forever. I mean, magic does some really weird stuff to the blood, lyrium even more so! That’s what that glow is! I’ve seen other mage’s blood, but a necromancer? That’s different. I can’t wait to get it into the lab.”  
“Why are you here?” Cullen’s mouth felt dry and cottony. He did not want to entertain anyone right then.   
“Oh! I need your lyrium!” she admitted.   
He dropped his face into his hand, shoulders slumping. That had been the last of it, his emergency supply, the lyrium that he had kept and tried not to take for so very long. He didn’t have anything else.   
“Don’t the other templars have any?”   
“Probably but there’s isn’t like yours. There’s a chance that there was a difference and I can’t really figure out what’s wrong with your lyrium if I’m studying with someone else’s. It would be nice if I had some of Dorian’s blood from before he drank it, that would give me something without so many variables. I can’t really see what the effects are when the effects have already taken effect.”  
“I don’t have any.”  
“What?”  
He glared at her. The look was colder than he intended, he could tell, but she didn’t seem to notice it and, if she did, she didn’t make a point of it.   
“I don’t have any. That was the last of it that I gave Dorian.”  
“Shit.” She was right next to him. He hadn’t noticed her walking in the room, hadn’t noticed how close she’d gotten. She was looking at his face and at his shoulder and at the broken glass from where he’d thrown the first of the wine bottles. “I don’t know what I can do for Dorian without that. The lyrium is still in his system, it’s killing him from the inside. I need a sample of it unadulterated in order to recognize it in his blood, so I can nullify it.”  
That was it. That was the last that he could take. He crumpled, elbows on the counter, and buried his face. He couldn’t stop himself from sobbing, not now. He was exhausted and hurt and drunk and there was nothing that he could do. Even by hurting Dorian he was hurting Dorian even worse. He was dying and Cullen couldn’t remember anyone like Dorian from before, someone, a mage at that, who didn’t care about his templar history like the rest, who didn’t assume he was a murderer and a jailer; which he was but he was trying to get better. It had always brightened Cullen’s day to see Dorian smile, to play chess with him, to just sit back and talk and complain about Kirkwall. Dorian had been there, just for a moment, as he came down from Tevinter. He could say things that he couldn’t talk to Varric or Cassandra about.   
He hated to say it, he truly did, but Dorian was his friend. He was killing his friend.  
Dagna’s hand was on his elbow. She was good enough to not touch his shoulder. Her hand was warm though, kind, comforting. She even spoke more slowly, slightly lower in tone. “Hey, it’s okay. You know you’re supplier? We can see if we can get more.”  
Cullen nodded. That would work. That would have to work. He couldn’t make things worse.


	5. Chapter 5

Cassandra and the others didn’t come back to Skyhold for another six days. Cullen had been drowning himself in work and alcohol, trying not to think about Dorian, waiting for any news at all from Dagna or Leliana on where Riosan was. Riosan was a weasel, had been back in Kirkwall, supplying the templars with their lyrium. Cullen doubted Riosan had gotten any better since he’d left.   
They were supposed to be back after four. Something had happened. Cullen was buried under a pile of papers and half a bottle of wine though, he didn’t want to go to the window to look. He could hear it just fine. There was a lot of shouting, a lot of impatience, and a lot of orders passed about. It wasn’t hard to catch Cassandra’s disgusted voice amongst the rest.   
A few minutes of what sounded like course arguing and there was a knock on his door. He pushed his chair back, regretting the sound of his chair legs scraping against the floor, before limping towards the door. Dagna had wrapped his wounds, pretty well considering her lack of training in such matters, as well as her incessant chatting. She was at the door. She looked worried.   
“What’s going on?” Cullen looked from her to, finally, the direction of the surgeon. He couldn’t see much from the distance, but he could see a good sized crowd.   
“They got ambushed apparently, something about wolves? Demons too, a lot of them. Didn’t know those two worked together, but they do I guess. Basically a lot of them got hurt and there’s not enough space for them all over at the infirmary. Not enough people to take care of them either.”  
The wolves. He knew that there was something wrong with them. They had acted too strangely, had attacked when they never should have. It didn’t make sense for demons to take an interest in such things but, they may have been more unparticular and more conniving than they’d all thought. Or more desperate.   
“They’re going to kick Dorian out,” she continued and that was enough to make Cullen’s mouth go dry, his attention immediately drawn back to her. Dorian had been quiet since that first night but he didn’t know much else than that. He hadn’t been brave enough to go down there, to visit him, to even walk by to get to the actual tower. He didn’t know if Dorian had even woken yet.   
“How is he? Has he come back to consciousness yet?” he pressed, ignoring the real issue for the moment.   
“Not great. I think he’s woken up a couple of times, but not much for anything. He’s stable though, as much as anyone can tell. Vivienne came by, did some really cool magic, made all of his veins light up like fire under his skin, but she couldn’t do much to get him on the mend. Point is though, that they need him to leave the infirmary. I thought you might like to volunteer.”  
Cullen held his breath, sucked in his lower lip, and stared in the direction of the infirmary. He wasn’t a nurse, didn’t know much of anything on how to be a healer or even a caretaker. He was the cause of Dorian’s pain as well, he would likely just make everything worse. And he was a templar. As much as he left, as much as he tried to put that part of his life behind himself, he was still a templar. People would hate him, knowing that he was in charge of a mage, was boding over him.   
He owed Dorian though. He wanted to make up for what he’d done, however he could.   
He nodded.   
Dagna brightened, a grin taking over her face as it was ought to do. “Oh good! I can get The Iron Bull to carry him up here, if you want. I know Dorian’s light for a guy like Bull, but I wouldn’t mind watching him lift, if you know what I mean.”  
Cullen raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t sure that was appropriate for the situation.   
“Anyway, I was just on my way here anyway, not just for bad news. I actually have some good news too! Leliana heard back from her people and apparently Riosan is way over at the Orlesian border. He’s a smuggler now, if that’s any kind of surprise, making all sorts of problems for this templar-mage war thing. He looks like he’s traveling this way too. Probably going to Redcliffe eventually.”  
Cullen felt his ears turn a bit pink as his heart went faster, finally something good was coming into play.   
“Try to have Leliana’s people intercept him, would you?” he asked, “see if they can buy some from him on the way. I’m sure they can move weeks faster than Riosan could.”  
“That was the plan, I think! I’ll go get The Iron Bull. Not hard to find him, really hard to miss,” she winked and Cullen felt the pink in his ears start to spread uncomfortably. “I’ll be right back.”  
She headed out, starting her way down towards the training rings. He watched her go, just for a little while, letting some of the fresh air into his office. He hadn’t noticed how stale it had gotten. The nights were cold, with the hole in the roof, but the air didn’t come down easily from it.   
She stopped, just a few steps down the stairs and turned back to him, “Remember, Harold’s back in a couple days. They’re going to want a full report or whatever.”  
He didn’t respond other than a nod. He closed the door. He didn’t want to drink, he wanted to be in at least some form of shape when Dorian arrived. But he felt like he needed it. The Inquisitor was coming back. He didn’t know how much they knew, if they knew anything at all. He did know that they were going to take out whatever frustration their trip had caused them on him. He deserved it do. That didn’t mean he was looking forward to it though.


	6. Chapter 6

The Iron Bull had a heavy blanket in his arms and the figure inside of them, in comparison to the Qunari’s massive chest, looked like a child. Cullen would have asked, but he already knew that the small man was Dorian, shrunk down from pain and damage and hunger. He was being fed, certainly, but there weren’t many nutrients in clear broth and his body was burning it all faster than the nurses could pour it into him.   
“So,” The Iron Bull had his eye on Cullen’s ladder, standing awkwardly in the center of his office, “what’s the plan?”  
“Plan?” Cullen stared up with him.   
“You don’t really think I can carry him up the ladder? I mean, I could, but it would probably be for the best that I didn’t,” he explained, “He’d be better off down here.”  
Cullen looked around. He hadn’t thought about that. He didn’t have anywhere for Dorian to sleep, no extra mattress or anything. He wrapped himself up in most, if not all, of his blankets at night, not having any way to keep the heat. He should have taken the Inquisitor’s offer, all those months ago, to get the hole in his roof repaired. He hadn’t had any desire to then, the only desire now was for Dorian’s sake.   
“The chair.” He motioned to the only chair in the room that wasn’t behind his desk. It matched, albeit for the wear, and it had a footstool. It wouldn’t be the best, but it would be better than lying Dorian out on the ground and it would be easier to feed him if he was already upright.   
The Iron Bull shrugged and lay Dorian down on the chair. The plush fabric barely even dipped under Dorian’s meager weight. The blanket fell from his face, just enough for Cullen to catch a glimpse of it. Even asleep, Dorian looked exhausted, darkness under his eyes not caused by smudged kohl. His skin had taken on an ashy color and a clammy texture. His mouth was open, skin flaking off from being terribly chapped, pale and taking on a lyrium blue tint. He should not have been moved.   
“I’m sorry.” Cullen leaned back on his desk, more to grip the edge of the wood hard enough to hurt his own knuckles than for the support.   
The Iron Bull looked from Dorian to him and it took him a little longer than it should have for a barisaad to realize that the apology was directed at him and not, for the moment, at Dorian. He didn’t ask, just titled his head, which looked terribly unbalanced due to the horns, like the weight would carry him over.   
“You like him, don’t you?” Cullen couldn’t look at either of them, looked instead to the red stain on the wall by his desk. He’d seen the way that The Iron Bull flirted with Dorian, almost without mercy, and the way that the Qunari liked to wrap his large hand around Dorian’s shoulder or waist when he thought he could get away with it. “I hurt him, I could have killed him. My folly could still do so. I should have let you take care of him, let you have that chance. I didn’t-“  
The Iron Bull interrupted him by putting his hand on Cullen’s shoulder, making him feel miniscule under such fingers and gaze. “You do yourself too little credit. You didn’t intend to hurt him, it wasn’t in you to want to cause harm. It wasn’t your fault.”  
“But-“  
“But it was your lyrium and you’re supposed to watch out for mages, right?” The iron Bull smirked and Cullen could do nothing but nod his response. “If you gave me your sword and I fell on it, would you have hurt me? If you gave josie your inkwell and she wrote a letter than ruined the inquisition, would you have betrayed us all?”  
Cullen shook his head.   
“That’s right.” He lifted his hand just enough to slap it back down, a pat that was a bit too hard. “Vivienne’s going to be by in a bit. You might want to spruce the place up before then.”  
He left Dorian to his thoughts then and to Dorian. He checked on the mage with the sensitive nature of a man afraid that his touch would cause flames, even though Dorian actually had the ability to do so. He was hot and cold at the same time, skin cool on the ose and cheeks, but hot and sweating on the forehead and temples. He didn’t know much about medical care, but fevers were better cared for with heat than not.   
He climbed his ladder, tossed his own blankets down and wondered if it would be possible for him to throw the mattress down too, before making his way back to wrap Dorian into more warmth.   
The mage shifted exactly once while Cullen moved him, only a light huff of breath as he shuddered and then stretched into the new coming warmth.   
“How is he?” Vivienne’s voice, even with exposed concern, was unmistakable from the doorway.   
“I think you would know that better than I,” Cullen admitted, pulling away from Dorian to go to the fireplace instead. There wasn’t much in the way of a fire, but an added log and some good stoking would do more than repair it.   
“It’s hard to tell, my dear.” she waltzed in and Cullen wondered if it were possible for her to walk with anything less than utter elegance. “He’s woken only a few times and the surgeon and I have done our best to keep him so drugged that he can’t feel much of anything. He’s hardly what I would call lucid when he wakes.”  
“Because of the pain?” Cullen noticed how dark Dorian’s jaw line was getting. No one had even shaved him, never mind repair his mustache. It grew quickly, more so than any Fereldan man Cullen had known. Perhaps Blackwall could compete, but he had no way to know.   
“That and other reasons.” Vivienne brushed some loose hair, curled from sweat and lack of primping, away from Dorian’s face. “You can’t let him use magic, you see. It can completely exacerbate his condition. The lyrium is feeding off of his natural magic reserves and, while the magebane is helping, we cannot rely on it. He is a stronger mage than the smaller doses of magebane can conquer and I fear that too much of it could inhibit his future attempts at magic.”  
Cullen hadn’t heard about that. He knew that a good potion of magebane was good at controlling mages for the moment, but he hadn’t heard anything about it having longer lasting effects. It hadn’t mattered to templars. As long as the mages weren’t hurting anyone they had done their job. Fools, the lot of them.   
“Magic can hurt him-“  
“Can kill him,” Vivienne corrected with a haughty glare.   
“But he has control over it. He’s Tevinter, their mages learn how to live with magic, not repress it. They don’t just have magical accidents. It shouldn’t be too difficult for him to not cast.”  
Vivienne sighed and brushed off the arm of Dorian’s chair before sitting on it with her legs crossed, her hands crossed in her lap. She looked Cullen over, contempt in her eyes. It faded quickly though, replaced with a kind of pitying understanding.   
“You are both right and wrong, I suppose. If I wanted to give you any credit, it would be that he is Tevine and they are different from our mages. Everything else is a complete inaccuracy. They cast unconsciously and constantly. They don’t see the necessity to light a fire when they could flick their risk. Everything they do has magic ingrained in it. If Dorian couldn’t cast while conscious, he would be like an invalid. He wouldn’t know how to do tasks that we don’t even think of doing. Magic is such an integral part of his culture.”  
Cullen bit his lip. He was in over his head, he knew that. He was sure that Vivienne saw it too. He hoped she would be kind enough to take the responsibility he had taken away, find him unfit. If Dorian died in his care, because he didn’t understand magic, because he was a templar, because he had been poisoned in his heart by his own lies about what mages are, the ones he fought daily, told himself weren’t true and never fully believed, he didn’t know what he would do.   
“He’s having nightmares.” Vivienne said it curtly, like it was a hideous secret that could destroy them all even if it were by mere reputation. “Bad ones. Solas has been complaining about them. In the Fade, he hasn’t gone to find Dorian, but he says that he has no need to. Demons are flocking to him, to the dreams that he is having. Solas says that they are gold and red and black, like a beacon, in the Fade.”  
His eyes went straight back to Dorian. They had spoken, many times, and about all manner of things, but in this moment he realized how little he knew about Dorian. He himself had nightmares, Kinloch Hold, Kirkwall, things that had happened and things that he’d thought had happened. He had no idea what could cause nightmares for a Tevine Altus. He didn’t even know why Dorian had left, aside from to join the Inquisition and kill Venatori.   
“He could lash out while dreaming,” Vivienne continued, “it is how many mages learn of their abilities, unconsciously, to defend themselves against the terrors of the Fade.”  
“I’ll sleep beside him, if I can sleep at all,” Cullen vowed, “I’ll do whatever is in my power to keep him from dreaming.”  
The pity returned to her expression, this time in the form of a small smile. “I do wish you luck, my darling. Without knowing a cause it can be near impossible to find a solution or even predict a pattern. I shall endeavor to supply you with aid as best I can.”


	7. Chapter 7

The first night was quiet, although Cullen had dreams of his own to worry about. His were blue against the fade, the natural colors of it muted and the green tinges fading away. It took almost too long for him to recognize the exact color being that of lyrium. He could see the demons in the distance, trying to get in, but more often than not they had no interest in him. They were always there, watching, just shadows in the distance of his dreams, but he still saw the purple flair of a desire demon that considered him. There was much to tempt him with, withdrawals making him worry that he would be more easily targeted, but he was no mage and they were the real targets of spirits and demons alike.  
The day was quiet too, Cullen trying not to make too much noise as he worked, seeing nurses come in and feed Dorian his potions and broth, leaving some after so Cullen could take over in a few hours. Cullen didn’t want them there, not that he wanted all of the responsibility, but because he wanted Dorian to have the rest that he so obviously needed.  
There was nothing that he could do aside from his work and keep Dorian warm. He was in no way equipped to help with getting Riosan’s lyrium. He couldn’t help Dagna with her research. He could only do paperwork. He didn’t even bother with his troops, there were others who could watch over training.  
He was needed there.  
He was needed in the evening, when Dorian started to sweat more profusely, eyelashes fluttering, and chest starting to heave. Cullen was on him in an instant, stroking his hair and wiping away at his sweat with a wet clothe. Dorian slowly calmed but Cullen was certain that it was the beginning of a nightmare and worse would be coming.  
He took a clipboard, put whatever paperwork he could fit onto it there and dragged his chair over to where Dorian’s was. He wasn’t going to risk working at his desk. Dorian might need him at any moment now that the dreams had started. Perhaps the moving had made them fade for a time.  
It was an hour later when it started up again, more violent than the first time, Dorian practically squirming where he sat. Cullen did the same as before, but it didn’t work as well and Dorian seemed more resistant towards him than not. His lip was moving but he was dehydrated and weak and the only sound that came out was a desperate groan.  
“Dorian,” Cullen started, speaking louder than he would like to to a sleeping man, but he didn’t know what else to do, “Dorian, this is Cullen, can you hear me? You’re dreaming. I’m going to need you to calm down though, alright? I don’t know if you can, seeing as how you’re in the fade, but I’m going to need you to try.”  
Dorian did and, while his breathing was more rapid for a time, the rest of it settled down. Cullen started to relax. He hadn’t noticed how high up his shoulders had risen in the stress of the situation. He set his clipboard down and leaned forward, kissing Dorian’s forehead, before thinking better of it. It was meant to be kind, calming, but once he’d done it, he felt flustered, hot in the face and chest, and wrong, like he’d crossed some kind of boundary.  
There was no more paperwork to be done though, as much as was still left on his clipboard. They would understand, he was busy, he couldn’t do everything. He wanted to, hated himself for his lack of discipline, but he was caring for Dorian on top of his duties, and that took too much of his attention.  
Once they were both fed, Cullen with something strange and flaky and Orlesian – Josie’s people had brought it earlier – and Dorian his broth and potions, he found himself ready to join Dorian in the Fade. He didn’t like thinking of it like that but it was the first wording that popped in his head and it made him feel a bit grimier than intended.  
But he slipped into the fade all the same, and he could see those shadows, watching him. They were distracted though and, once he’d wandered into the library of the circle, all of the other templars running past him, trying to get to the Harrowing Chamber in time, he saw them, one by one, start to leave. He knew where this dream was heading. He did not want to follow it.  
He looking in the direction of the demons, where they were starting to swarm. It wasn’t terribly close but it was right beside him. Dreams were like that. He wasn’t great at the Fade, he couldn’t tell his dreams apart from other people’s or even outside of his dreams normally, but for once he could. It was that bright.  
The beacon, just as it had been described to him. Purple bouts of magic flew into the air sparking and twirling into the shape of skulls. Red, splattering the ground, looking as if it were dripping down and down into nothingness. And black, swirling through the rest of it, making it so he couldn’t see through to the mage trapped inside. And there were demons everywhere.  
He growled, knowing his charge, knowing his purpose. He was still fresh, he had never killed a mage before, but he’d always wanted to kill demons. It was his job to stop them from becoming abominations. That’s why he was supposed to go to the Harrowing Chamber. There were enough templars there though, this one mage was his own.  
He ran towards the beacon, his sword held high, slicing through demons and knocking them out of the way. He doubted he was dealing them any damage, but that didn’t matter, he had to get through. Claws raked at his armor, shining bright, but could not pierce it. He was a stalwart knight against the darkness, he was the hero, he was a righteous templar, doing as he was born to do. No demon could harm him.  
The darkness was thick and murky but he pushed through it. The mage was close. He could smell the ozone and lyrium and mana in the air. And then he could smell something else.  
He was not a templar, he was a soldier, his feathery cowl tickling his jaw. His sword felt heavy, his back ached, and he was older. There was no order, no shine. The mage before him though was beyond his help.  
Dorian was sitting in a chair, bound to it, sigils carved into his wrists to hold him. Blood dripped from them in watery streams, meeting the ground and dipping through it. His eyes were rolling, hardly paying attention, before an elf was dragged to the foreground, slaughtered before him, and that was when he started to scream. Even before the murderers had drawn on his flesh with the blood, tried to force it into his mouth, he was screaming, thrashing, trying to get away from whatever was holding him.  
And then, looming behind the tall backed chair, size of a pride demon, was a man. He was dressed in beautiful robes and when he reached down, held Dorian in place, his hands were as gentle as a fathers. Dorian was crying around the touch, around the blood, tears soaking into the tattered robes around him.  
This was wrong. Cullen didn’t understand it but there was so much blood, it had to be a ritual of some sort. He had to stop it.  
He darted past the players, the imaginary people, and paid attention to what mattered. He’d heard from Solas, at some point, that you could be stronger than the Fade by thinking you were stronger than the fade. Nothing here was real, it was all reenactments and fancy. Dorian was real though. Dorian wasn’t strong enough against this.  
He grabbed Dorian’s wrist and pulled him up, out of the chair. The chair was gone, the man behind it was gone. They were standing on the sloped bank of the fade, demons hissing from the shadows.  
“Cullen?” Dorian asked, shaking in his hold. He was clean now, his robes the ones he wore lounging around Skyhold, albeit far more loose and alluring, and not a speck of blood on him. There were, however, fresh scars on his wrists. “Cullen, what are you doing here?”  
Cullen embraced him, held him close, and did what he could to comfort the mage. Dorian didn’t seem to be bothered by the events but he wore a mask as beautiful crafted as an Orlesian dutchess, and Cullen knew he wouldn’t be allowed to see past it.  
“I couldn’t…” he couldn’t find the words. He didn’t know what to say. “I couldn’t…”


End file.
